Page 4 of Charlotte's Reckoning
Outlaw Legacy
Eastern Colorado, June 1867
The pounding of horses’ hooves on the sunbaked ground kicked up enough dirt to choke a man. Usually, in early summer, lush grass covered the high plains as far as the eye could see. This year, a mild winter with little snow in the mountains and an arid spring left the land parched and brown. The tiniest spark from a lightning strike could set the entire area ablaze.
But a wildfire was the least of Seth’s problems. He was hungry, tired, and dirty. The wind whipping through the valley stung his face and burned his eyes despite the brim of his hat dipped as low as it would go and the bandana covering his mouth and nose. He hunched forward, readyfor a break. After a lifetime spentin the saddlefrom before daylight until after nightfall, he had permanent callouseson his assand thighs. Riding hard the past few days, it felt like new ones had formed on top of the old. He’d give his eyeteeth for a meal that didn’t come from a can and to sleep, not in a bedroll on the unforgiving ground but in clean linens ona soft bedfor more than a night.
They were roughly sixty miles southeast of Denver, pushing their horses to the limit. But they couldn’t afford to slow down, not with a posselured by the substantial bounty on some of their heads, hot on their trail . The primary targets were William Hartigan, aka Deadeye Bill, Seth’s father and theleader of theoutlaw gang bearing his name, Ike Hartigan, Bill’s brother,andat least two of their five fellow outlaws. If the reward wasn’t enough motivation, they carried six bulging bags of cash from the First National Bank of Denver. Beforethe Hartigan gangpaid them a visit, they’d boasted assets of over one hundred thousand dollars.Seth figuredthe posse wasmade up of angry depositors, robbed of their life savings, and out for revenge.
A piercing whistlejerked him uprightin the saddle. “Seth, get up here,”was the gruffly barked order that followed.
Riding next to him, his older brother Judd reached out and smacked him on the head, knocking his hat sideways. “What do you think this is, runt? ASunday ride in the park? Pay attention to your surroundings, for fuck’s sake. Me and Pa taught you better.”
At some point, the horses had slowed to a walk. He was so preoccupied, either with his thoughts or the need to piss, gnawing at him for the past half hour, he hadn’t realized it.
Being called out by his brother was as familiar as getting whacked in the head. It happened less frequently as he got older, as did allowing his mind to wander when he should have been watching for signs of trouble.
“Sometime today, boy,”his father demanded.
After scowling at his smirking brother, who laughed outright when he reached up to straighten his crooked hat, Seth nudged his horse forward.
His father hadn’t always been an outlaw, nor had his father and grandfathers before him. They’d been cattle ranchers in the Mississippi Valley until the economic collapse after the war in 1815. Fed up with years of depression and the persistent strain of wondering when, not if, the bank would foreclose, Seth’s grandfather had packed up and moved his young family to the Mexican province of Texas, where a land grant and 200 dollars bought him 5000 acres.
He may have gotten a bargain, but the cost of living in the region, with long-standing conflicts and constant war, was steep. Pa often said when they defeated one enemy, another stepped into his shoes before they got cold. At thirty, tired of the carnage and convinced the fighting would never end, Bill sold his shares to Ike andreturned east. He found work as a hired gun for wealthy men and supplemented his income with gambling, excelling at both. When talk of succession and another war began, he didn’t stick around—he’d done that and didn’t like it the first time.
With the railroads pushing westward, Bill followed, exploring the towns that sprang up along the lines and witnessing the folly of those whose gold fever lingered after the mines and creek beds ran dry. While he’d dabbled in it briefly, he preferred easier ways tomake a living, such as robbing banks, stagecoaches, and trains. His extraordinary marksmanship, with a pistol and a rifle, a skill honed over years of practice, earned him his nickname.
Over twenty years, he made his fortune, saving enough to care for his family and gambling the rest away. But his legend of evading capture grew. Soon, every town, big or small, west of the Mississippi displayed a wanted poster with his likeness, offering a $1000 reward.
As Seth drew up alongside his father, he muttered, “Sorry, Pa.”
Blue eyes in a tanned face slid his way. Hartigan blue, like all the men in the family. They stood out bright against the sky behind him, contrasting withhis gray-tinged skin. At fifty-six, the pace they set and the strain of the journey were wearing on him.
“Your brother’s right,”he drawled. “Inattention gets you dead.”
His warning was something Seth had heard a hundred times before. Feeling like he was ten instead of a decade older, he took the valid criticism without excuses. “It won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t. I know you’re tired, son. We all are. But we’re on the home stretch and have to stay sharp.”
Over the past year, they’d targeted bigger banks with larger deposits, but the increased rewards came with greater risk—they were heavily guarded. Some folks hereabouts saidthe Hartigan Gangwas fearless, but more called them stupid and predicted it was only a matter of time before their luck turned. But they didn’t need luck. They had Deadeye Bill. He was clever as a fox with the ability to size up a target, plan the job to the nth degree, and then ensure its execution by forcing them to go over it again and again. It drove the men nuts, but they didn’t complain too much. He was making them rich—those who could hang onto it—and, more importantly, nomember of thenotoriousHartigan Gang hadever been caught or killed.
That didn’t mean no one was ever injured.
Seth’s gaze fell to his pa’s hand curled around his left side just below his ribs. The dark stain on his shirt had grown larger than the last time he’d seen it. His pa had an excuse to be distracted if not falling asleep in the saddle—no one else did.
“You’re still bleeding,”he observed quietly. “We should stop and check that bandage again.”
“It’s fine. We’ll be home before nightfall. You can tend it then.”The halfhearted smile he sent his way looked more like a pain-filled grimace. “See that bluff over there?”
Seth looked where his father directed with barely a lift of his chin.
A few miles away, parallel to the trail they’d been following for at least an hour, was a gradual rise in the otherwise-flat grassland. He’d hardly call it a hill, much less a bluff.
“I see it,”he replied.
“Head up top and check our back trail. I’ve got a bad feeling, and it has nothing to do with the bullet that grazed my side.”
Seth twisted in his saddle and scanned the empty plain behind them. “It’s too soon. When Ike doubled back early this morning,the posse wascamped by the river. He said we had at least a half-day lead on them. What are you thinking?”
